


Here Be Monsters

by NephilimEQ



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Guts, Complete, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Monsters, Revealed secrets, Secrets, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, obligatory bath scene, resolved angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephilimEQ/pseuds/NephilimEQ
Summary: On the road again after years of separation, and Geralt notices something is different about his bard. Everything is as usual, but something...something is not right about Jaskier. He has a secret. And Geralt is going to find it out, no matter what.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 51
Kudos: 843





	1. Chapter 1

**1**

Geralt was irritated, as per usual, listening to Jaskier go on and on about his latest conquest, some Lady of…something. He admitted that he hadn’t exactly been paying close attention. He’d dismounted about a mile back, letting Roach have a break. They’d been going hard and fast nearly a day and it wasn’t fair on the poor animal. Nor was it fair on Roach. But being on the ground now meant that Jaskier was right there, prattling on directly in his ear.

He knew the young man only stuck around for the inspiration from his battles, which shouldn’t have bothered him, but something about it bothered him, just under his skin. He was a witcher; nothing bothered him. At least, nothing was _supposed_ to bother him.

“I’m just saying,” drawled the bard, “If you’re going to be slaying, do you think you could make it…longer than usual? I am hoping to write an epic ballad, but your battles of late have been…disappointingly short.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow.

“Short?”

Jaskier nodded and gestured as he said, “Yes. Short. As in,” he jogged up next to him, “You leave in a rush and by the time I catch up, the aforementioned beast's head is already in a sack. I would actually like to _witness_ one of your recent conquests. Secondhand isn’t what puts coin in the coffers.”

Geralt mentally found it amusing how the two of them used the same word for entirely different contexts.

But all he said in response was, “So sorry. I'll make more of an effort to draw them out,” and he shook his head as he tugged Roach along. The man was downright irritating.

He glanced over his shoulder and watched with some amusement as the lute bounced off the bard’s back while he muttered under his breath, sounding like he was composing, which he most likely was. He was, by far, the most annoyingly persistent travel companion that he’d ever had. Of course, Geralt didn’t have many travel companions to compare him to, to be honest.

They had parted ways last time not so pleasantly, and so Geralt was taken aback when the bard had taken back up traveling with him. He had lost companions for saying less than what he’d said to him. Again, the man was more baffling to him than he liked to think about. Yennefer was far behind him, a mere vaguely warm memory in a mostly cold past. Triss was even further behind him. Ciri came and went as she pleased, but Jaskier…well. The bard had been his first companion, and seemed determined to be his last, though Geralt was at a loss as to why.

He’d certainly became rather well known after his songs spread like wildfire through the land, being played in taverns everywhere he went, around fires in the wilderness, and plaguing Geralt even when the bard had been gone from his side. An annoying echo, though not entirely unwelcome.

As they kept the pace, less than a mile ahead, Geralt sensed something was amiss, even before Roach could.

Quickly, he handed the reins off to Jaskier, who was still muttering under his breath and attempting to write on parchment as he walked, and the witcher grunted, “Stay here. Something’s up ahead,” and ignored the way the bard fumbled with his pages and then reluctantly took the reins, while attempting to whine in false protest.

Geralt drew his sword silently and took a cautious, long glance around him.

He checked the shadows and the spaces between the branches of the trees, where it was easy for something to—

And then he was on his back, a large and hulking mass over top of him, scrambling with sharp claws, trying to get to his soft spots. He struggled for a good long while, trying to keep it from striking him, a few glancing scrapes here and there along his shoulders, and then thrust up as best he could, catching the edge of something hard, and then pulled with all his might, blackish-green blood spilling across his arm and gauntlet.

 _Not blood_ , he realized, hissing as it went straight through the leather and burned the skin beneath. Acid.

Thrusting a second time, proper red blood spurting across his face, he managed to get his feet underneath him and finally saw what he was fighting as he wiped away the red with the back of his gloved hand. When he saw the profile of the beast, he cursed.

Ah. Fuck.

Knowing he had to strike fast, he sprung forward and used the wet ground to his advantage, deliberately falling to his knees so that he could slide under the creature and slice upwards into its’ soft belly. As he did, the monster erupted; reddish pink guts and the stomach contents of several other travelers, bones and hair and partially digested flesh and leather falling out of it and over the Witcher’s shoulder, spilling down his back and into the pile of acid behind and thick mud under him.

He emerged on the other side of the creature just as it collapsed to its quickly emptying stomach, the smell of its’ bowels overwhelming to his witcher’s senses. It still writhed, attempting to reach towards Jaskier and Roach, who stood just beyond the monster’s grasp. Roach’s eyes rolled nearly white in her sockets as she tried to pull herself from the bard’s hold, but Geralt was surprised by how easily the young man held the horse still and didn’t move an inch, as if he’d known that Geralt would be victorious.

His eyes were wide, but not scared. More…in awe.

Geralt caught his gaze.

Unable to help himself, he quipped, “Was that long enough for you?” and then stepped forward and thrust his sword down and sliced off the monster’s head. He then moved to grab Roach’s reins but was taken aback when Jaskier stepped away from him, pulling Roach along with him as he said, “Oh, ho! I don’t _think_ so! You need a bath before you touch… _any_ thing. You smell horrid,” he added, wafting his free hand in front of his nose and Geralt rolled his eyes.

“A bath?”

Jaskier nodded and reached down and picked up his discarded pages, which had, miraculously, been spared from any damage. As soon as he’d tucked them into his pack in a haphazard manner, he answered briskly, “There’s a river not a mile down the path. Care to wait that long?”

Just as he opened his mouth to reply, Jaskier interrupted him with, “Wait, I rescind the question! I don’t need any smart remarks, least of all from you!”

He thought about saying something else…but instead smirked and followed off to the side, for once letting the bard take the lead. He let himself drop behind for a while, shoving the head into a sack, and assessing the damage to his arm and armor, debating whether or not he should use a potion. He looked up after a few minutes and watched the bard with his longest companion.

“You would think he’d have learned by now,” Geralt heard him mutter to Roach with his keen ears. “But, no, he just forges ahead, not once thinking of his own life or yours! I mean, what on earth would you do without your rider?” he asked rhetorically, and Roach nudged Jaskier in the side and snorted, and Geralt felt a faint smile on the corner of his lips at the sight and at hearing Jaskier reply to his mount, “Oh, no, no, I am poor substitute for that man, trust me. You wouldn’t want me as your rider.”

Roach whickered and nudged the bard a second time, while Geralt silently marveled. Roach was usually only that demonstrative with him, and silent with anyone else.

“I could write a ballad about you, you know,” he heard Jaskier say to his girl. “Roach, the mighty horse warrior who bore the hero to his last stand. Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad,” he mused out loud. “Let’s see…what rhymes with Roach?”

Geralt shook his head and turned his attention back to the road and what was worrying him; the monster that had attacked wasn’t native to the area.

In fact, it had been downright unnatural. There was no rational reason for one of its’ kind to be that far south. Perhaps it had been sick, he mused. Eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him and had caused him to act out of its’ usual nature. It was fully possible, he concluded, but something still wasn’t sitting quite right with him.

Soon enough, they came upon the river, and Jaskier gave him a pointed look as if to silently say, _Well, have at it,_ and Geralt fought the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he stripped and hastily rinsed off in the icy cold water that most likely was runoff from the mountains many leagues behind them. He would never admit it, but it felt damn good to not be covered in guts and bile. He acted as though it didn’t bother him because that was what was expected of a mutant, but it _did_ bother him.

As he pulled a piece of what looked like a human rib bone and a tooth from his hair, he glanced up the riverbank and saw Jaskier sneaking Roach an apple from his pack.

He wanted to be upset but wasn’t.

Instead, he shouted up at him, “Clothes, Jaskier. My pack.”

Jumping slightly, as if afraid he had just been caught, he went for the witcher’s bag across the horse’s haunches and pulled out a pair of trousers and a clean shirt. Geralt silently mourned the loss of one of his gauntlets. He’d worked long and hard at the leather, it had been worn and fitted in just the right way…and now he would have to replace it. It was hard enough to find decent leather, and it would now only be more difficult, especially along the road they would be traveling. His hopes were less than high.

Feeling clean enough, he rose from the water, naked as the day he was born, not caring one whit, snorting at the way the bard turned his back and ducked his eyes as he walked up and retrieved his clothes from the rock that he’d thrown them on.

He tugged on the trousers, laced them up, and then threw the shirt on over still damp shoulders, ignoring the way that it clung to him.

As he reached for socks and boots, he noticed the way that Jaskier glanced at the bloody sack on the ground not too far from him, still oozing pinkish red from the seam, and waited for the inevitable question, and he wasn’t disappointed when Jaskier asked, “What was it you slayed exactly?”

“Need the name for your song?” he grunted.

The bard shook his head.

“No, not really. Just curious,” he said in an honest manner, reaching out and absently running his hand over the horse’s flank, and Geralt regarded him for a long moment before finally answering, “It’s called an _advaruk._ Spits acid to incapacitate its dinner and then uses its claws to slice it up into manageable pieces. Swallows those pieces whole.”

Jaskier swallowed. Geralt continued.

“It’s not supposed to be here. Too far--”

“South,” the bard finished for him, and Geralt gave him a look. Jaskier quickly defended himself, “I _read_ , I’m not stupid. I’ve heard the name. Never seen one, though.” He tapped the bag with the tip of his boot and then said, “Not too hard to kill, it seems,” and Geralt snorted.

“I got lucky. It was fat and slow. If it hadn’t fed recently, the outcome would have been much different, I assure you,” he added as he finished tying his boot and then abruptly got to his feet and reached for his bag to see what sad substitution for armor he could use until they found a decent leatherworker. “I want to make the town before nightfall. We can’t do that with you on foot,” he remarked, and saw Jaskier look surprised at his unspoken suggestion, and couldn’t help but add, “I’ll tie you to the saddlebag.”

Jaskier chuckled and said in a gleeful tone, “Oh ho, no, you are offering me a seat on your steed! There is a first for everything, it seems,” and Geralt glared at him as the witcher mounted.

“The offer of the saddlebag still stands,” he remarked, but Jaskier ignored him and instead unflinchingly grabbed onto the witcher’s arm and swung himself up right behind him, thighs snug against his, legs flush all the way down the leg to the knee.

“It’s far too late for that, dear witcher,” he replied, sounding all too pleased at the fact that he was on the horse that he’d been kept from with a glare for far too many years. “Now…shall we?”

He withheld rolling his eyes, yet again, and gently nudged the mare into a trot and then into an easy canter, and tried to ignore the easy way that Jaskier’s hands held onto his hips and the way that he settled into the rhythm in such a way that said that he’d ridden before and was quite good. Geralt carefully tucked the information to the back of his mind; for what reason, he wasn’t entirely sure, but it seemed to be important, and then focused on the road ahead of them.

He couldn’t afford to be distracted.

\--

They made the small town (though it hardly should have been considered one, the buildings looked like a strong shove could have them crumbling to the ground like precariously balanced twigs), and as soon as they did, Geralt dismounted and dragged Jaskier down off of Roach, ignoring his pathetic, half-hearted protests.

The inn was easy enough to find. A ragged piece of wood with a burned image of what appeared to be a loaf of bread and bed on it dangled on an old iron peg in front of one of the less rickety looking buildings and had a small stable attached, in which already stood a mule, a small roan, and an old workhorse, all of whom were munching on dry hay and what looked like oats that were several days old. Not the best, but it would do for a night.

He dropped Roach off with a glare at the stable hand that had him scurrying to take care of the mare, and as he walked into the inn the usual hush fell over the room as was expected whenever the witcher arrived anywhere.

Jaskier, of course, felt the need to break the tension, and pulled out his lute and began to pick and hum a familiar tune.

Several of the patrons looked up from their food and drink and turned their gazes on the bard, instead of the witcher, as he began to play “Toss A Coin” and then the barman looked at Geralt with wide eyes, looked down at the bag tied to his hip, the blood now mostly dried, and said, “The White Wolf,” in a tone that Geralt was all-too familiar with.

He braced himself for jeers and hisses and food thrown at him…and was taken off guard when the barman shouted out, “All hail the White Wolf!”

Everyone with a drink raised their tankard and shouted, “Hail the White Wolf!”

Feeling on the wrong foot, and not liking it one bit, Geralt made his way to the bar, and, gratefully, everyone soon turned their eyes back to Jaskier as he sang and had a few coins tossed his way.

“Hmm,” he grunted under his breath as he sat down the bar, trying not to pay too close attention to the way the bard’s eyes sparkled as he sang, always looking like something from one of his own epic ballads, like some sort of half-wild fae bewitching the masses with his haunting melodies and lithe, light body as he danced around them, through them, over them, walking across benches and on top of tables. He dragged his eyes away, even as they caught on the red of the bard’s coat, trying to pull him back to the song. He forced his eyes away one last time.

“Ale,” he requested, and the barman put it in front of him and said, “On the house for the White Wolf and his companion.”

He just grunted in reply and knew as he took a sip of the drink, that Jaskier would take shameless advantage of it, most likely to their detriment, with the full possibility of getting them both kicked out, even though the establishment was less than reputable. If anyone could get the two of them thrown out of where they even let rats take rest, it would be Jaskier.

After several songs, Jaskier sidled up next to him and didn’t even wait for his own drink, simply reached across and took a swig from Geralt’s and said, “A crowd with taste…though, the ale less so,” as he put the tankard down.

“It’s free,” Geralt grunted and the bard smiled and picked the drink back up.

“In that case, more ale!”

He swung back the last of it, and Geralt found his gaze drawn to the long expanse of the young man’s throat, pale and unmarked, and a rogue thought flashed through his mind of what it might look like covered in lovely bite-mark shaped bruises. Jaskier put the drink down and Geralt tore his eyes away.

Leaning in far too close for the witcher’s taste, Jaskier practically breathed into his ear as he asked, “So, how long do you think we’ll be welcome? You are rather notorious for wearing yours out fairly quickly,” he added, reaching for the drink that had been placed in front of him by the eager barman, shooting him a wink as he took a long sip. “A day, maybe two? You need new leather, I could use some real sleep in a real bed, not on the rocky ground. I know it would improve _my_ mood, though not sure about yours,” he rambled on.

Geralt grunted.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you’re in one of _those_ moods, then, are you? Well,” he leaned back and glanced over the room. “Then don’t mind me. Go and do whatever it is you plan to do, and I’ll just see if I can make us some more coin.”

And with that, he sauntered away with a grin on his face as he flashed a flirtatious smile in the direction of a fairly comely maid as she walked briskly past him to the door that lead to the stables. Geralt did roll his eyes at that point, and then looked back at the barman with a stern glare.

“Room. We need one. What do you have?”

-

He was surprised to find a much nicer room than he was expecting: a large wooden tub full of steaming hot water in one corner behind a curtain, and bed that actually felt soft, and it was fully possible that it had a mattress and pillows full of the feathers of some of the geese that he’d seen roaming wild in the streets of the small town as they’d first arrived. There was a fireplace, as well, with a fire burning bright, and the witcher suspected that the barman had given the two of them his own room.

Not knowing how long Jaskier would be gone, he put his pack down and tucked the bag holding the head of the _advaruk_ under the bed.

He had already bathed in the river, so he ignored the bath.

Instead, he approached the mirror that was mostly clean of dirt and pulled off his shirt to inspect the damage caused by the monster. Some marks were on his shoulders, but they weren’t particularly deep, light slashes, really, and would heal fine on their own so long as he kept them clean. Easy enough to do.

He could hear the faint sounds of the people downstairs, the chatter much livelier after he’d left, and he didn’t begrudge them their hesitance at being around him. Instead, he reached for the clean rag on the edge of the wooden tub and dipped it in the hot water before bringing it to his chest to better clean out the wounds. They were already closing, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful. For a while, he could hear Jaskier singing and then talking loudly with the patrons, and it seemed to be mixed results, a chorus of laughter and a few jeers.

He thought nothing of it, not expecting the bard to appear until much later in the evening, and so was taken aback when the he stumbled into the room only seconds later, on only slightly shaky legs, but still sober enough to say, “A bath! Well, that sounds delightful after the day I’ve had,” and then put the lute carefully to the side.

He then gestured to Geralt widely as he pulled off his embroidered coat, more fully exposing the white shirt beneath, and said, “Get in, witcher!”

“I bathed,” he grunted back at him and the bard rolled his eyes.

“No, you did not. A dip in a mountain stream does not a proper bath make. Now,” he added, nearly falling onto his face as he hopped on one foot and removed his shoes and trousers, “You will remove your trousers and get into the tub!”

Geralt didn’t move, and instead arched an eyebrow in Jaskier’s direction, realizing he was slightly drunk, and was suddenly curious as to his mood.

Obviously, Jaskier was having none of it, because he suddenly had two surprisingly firm and strong hands shoving at his shoulders and pushing him towards the bath, with the bard almost shouting, “Get in the tub, or, so help me, I will take your horse while you sleep and leave without you! Roach _likes_ me, you know, and she would let me.”

It was an empty threat, but Geralt quickly realized that there would be no dissuading the younger man’s mind, so he let himself be manhandled over to the bath, and then unlaced and got into the still hot and steaming water. Had he not been a witcher, the water would have scalded him and left him in pain, but he had to admit that to him it did feel remarkably kind over his worn out and tired body after a long day of riding, walking, and fighting.

He was startled when he saw Jaskier pull his undershirt over his head and turned his gaze just in time as he dropped his drawers.

“Jaskier, what are you doing?” he growled out, and was startled to feel the water slosh around his knees and warm skin against his calf as the bard, _apparently_ , decided to get into the bath with him.

He didn’t have to look up to hear the eyeroll in his tone as he answered, “I’m joining you, obviously. The bath is big enough for two grown men, or one overgrown one and one of a slighter build,” and Geralt finally looked up. Jaskier sat across from him, looking smug, but his eyes weren’t clouded, so he apparently wasn’t as drunk as he thought as Jaskier said, “I haven’t had a proper bath in ages and I’m not going to make that poor girl haul water up and down those stairs just to make me a new bath, so we’re sharing.”

He leveled his eyes at Geralt, as if daring him to throw him out, which he was sorely tempted to do…but instead he just shook his head.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier grinned.

“That’s what I thought,” he drawled, dipping his fingers into the lightly fragranced water and flicking a few drops at him. “White Wolf, my arse. You’re just a soft pup under all of that witcher guise, so I’ve long suspected,” and Geralt hmmed again, and instead dropped his head back and closed his eyes.

As he did, though, the thought then occurred to him: the water was boiling…so why wasn’t the bard affected?

He cautiously snuck a peak under his lids and saw Jaskier with his own eyes closed, arms propped on either side of the tub, letting out a long sigh as he said softly, under his breath, “Gods, this feels good. Been a long time since I’ve ridden, and my legs and arse need a break. Oh, sweet heat,” he added with a groan, shifting his body under the water…and Geralt swallowed.

He would worry about the oddness later. He had other things to worry about; like where he was going to find leather for a new gauntlet. His expectations were low for the town they were in, that much was certain.

Once the water had dropped to just below the temperature of the room, he slid out of it, unworried over his nakedness as Jaskier had fallen fast asleep. He dried off next to the fire and pulled on his trousers from before, and then looked over his shoulder and wondered just how to remove Jaskier without waking the fellow up. As much as the man annoyed and pestered him, it was obvious that the day’s exertions had tired him out, and it seemed unfair to rouse him.

Coming to a decision, he averted his eyes and reached down and pulled him out by his shoulders. He weighed more than Geralt was expecting, however, and he had to catch himself as he laid him down in front of the fire, facing the bard towards it and away from him. He then grabbed a rough wool blanket and tossed it over him.

He settled in the one chair in the room and stared and waited.

Barely a few minutes later, Jaskier aroused just enough to mumble, “Where’re my pants?” and Geralt grunted. He got up and looked in the bard’s bag and saw a pair of clean undergarments and tossed them at him.

“There. Put them on.”

The bard fumbled for a moment but managed to keep his modesty under the blanket, and then slowly emerged from it, bare chested and blinking, a yawn splitting his face as he stood up and stretched.

“Haven’t fallen asleep in a bath since I was a child,” he said, trying to blink the tiredness from his eyes, and Geralt saw the child he must have been stare at him for a few scant seconds over his shoulder, bluish hazel eyes wide and soft…until he suddenly looked at the bed and said firmly, “We’re sharing the bed.”

Geralt started to growl out a protest, but the bard cut him off with a lazy wave of his hand and drawled tiredly, “You witchers all act like you’re tough and nothing bothers you, but I know that no matter how tough you seem, sleeping on rocks all the time is hardly good for you. Probably explains why you’re always cranky,” he added, stumbling towards the bed. “You need something soft, and I need something soft, and this thing can easily fit us both, so shut up and get in.”

The last part was less than convincing as he faceplanted into the blanket covering it. Geralt went over and managed to get the bard’s gangly, but deceptively strong limbs into the bed.

As soon as he’d tucked him under one side, he reluctantly took the other. He was wary for a while, unable to rest, but soon Jaskier’s breathing evened out and, as if it was some sort of musical spell, like the ones he weaved when he sang, he felt his eyelids droop, heavy…

\--

\--And the next thing he knew, he was jolted awake by the door swinging open and banging on the wall, Jaskier’s all too chipper tone crying out, “Geralt, you’re awake! Good! I’ve brought breakfast. You do eat things other than rodents and the occasional deer, don’t you? Or is that some sort of witcher code that I’m not aware of?”

He fought against his urge to simply strangle the man, and instead managed to growl out, “Too loud,” to which Jaskier scoffed.

“Oh, right, because your snoring wasn’t loud enough.”

He clenched his jaw.

“I don’t snore.”

The bard threw him a look and then said, as he moved things around on the tray of food that he’d brought in, “Yes, you do. It’s actually rather nice to know that you’re still very human underneath the whole…” He gestured towards him. “…You know, witchering thing. Now, I have fruit and meat. And bread. Which would you prefer?” he asked, popping something that looked like a grape into his mouth.

Geralt glared at him but swung his legs over the side of the bed, and then grunted in answer, “I need nothing. Eat what you will, I’ll take what’s left.”

He then grabbed his shirt and tugged it on, well aware of the fact that Jaskier was watching his every move. In the bright light of the morning, which spilled through the single window that graced one crumbling, angled wall of the room, he felt more self-conscious than the night before.

He shoved the feeling down and reached for his boots and his pack, as well as checked under the bed for the bag with the head of the _advaruk._ It wasn’t there.

He turned and faced the bard, steeling his expression into one that caused children to run from him, screaming in terror.

Jaskier barely flinched and seemed to know exactly what he was about to ask, as he quickly said, “Ah, yeah, _about_ that…I might have put the monster’s head in my bag for the time being to keep it safe. You’re a witcher, after all, and everyone knows that you just killed something. I had a feeling that there might be a bounty, so I snuck out and asked around and, well, it turns out there is! One _advaruk_ head will get us a hefty payment of seven hundred gold. How’s that for some coin in our purse from such a sleepy little village?”

Geralt continued to glare.

“Our purse or yours, Jaskier? Also, who did you ask?”

He stalked over to the bard’s satchel and removed the stained bag and put it back into his own, glaring at him the whole time, annoyed that it didn’t seem to bother the younger man. Instead, he seemed amused by the whole thing as he pulled another grape off its stem and popped it between his teeth.

He then answered, “Don’t worry, no one important. Just a few of the folk downstairs, none of them important enough to know anyone in this place,” and Geralt shot him another glare, though he thought about giving up on it, as his glares seemed to be proving ineffective as of late with the bard.

Geralt then snapped at him, “This is a small town. Everyone knows everyone. You might as well have told them that we’re here to rob them blind.”

Jaskier ignored him and waved an absent hand in the air, as if batting away an errant fly, and replied, “You’re overreacting! After all, _they’re_ the ones offering the money and _we’re_ just the ones who are doing the deed for them to take it off their hands.”

He arched an eyebrow as he strapped his swords into place.

“We?”

The bard shrugged.

“Oh, alright, mainly you, but I am not a passive participant in these hunts, and you know it! I risk my life every day so that I can write the epic ballads that tell of your heroic actions and have turned you from the feared witcher, Butcher of Blavikin, Geralt of Rivia, to the White Wolf who rescues whole kingdoms by merely his strength and his sword!” Geralt grunted, unable to argue, and Jaskier continued. “This is the only way I have to spread my legacy, as well, Geralt, and you will not deny me that!”

He turned and faced the shorter man, throwing his satchel back over his shoulder, trying to decide if strangling him was worth the trouble. The bard looked up at him defiantly, chin jutted out, one hand on his hip, the other one, still holding the grapes, pointing at him, trying to look immovable and intimidating, not at all successfully.

Rolling his eyes, he said, “Bring what food you can. We’ll find whoever runs this miserable town, get paid, and go.”

As if he had broken some sort of magical spell, Jaskier lit up and tucked as much of the food away as he could into his own pack and, as he put his red, embroidered coat on, the one he’d been wearing for the past who knew how many weeks, he said, “Oh ho, now _there’s_ the spirit I’ve been looking for!”

He rolled his eyes a second time and turned and left the room.

\--

They’d made it to the mayor’s house unscathed and handed over the _advaruk_ head and gotten paid. A rare moment of there being both monster and coin in the same place, and Geralt let himself appreciate it while it lasted, because he knew that it wouldn’t stay that way.

They were only half a day from town when it attacked them.

He hated when he was right.

The creature lunged at him from the front, while Jaskier tugged Roach and himself out of the way, and Geralt grunted as the beast caught a glancing blow over his still healing shoulder. It didn’t hurt as badly as it could have, but then it got a claw deep into the one forearm that was unprotected and the witcher let out a howl of pain and threw all of his body weight into the monster, trying to throw it to his back, unsuccessfully. Instead, he gained just enough space and a few scant seconds to cast a sign, and so he did and let out a sigh of relief as the thing went up in flames, it’s body burning fast and letting out two pitiful dying screeches as it perished.

He staggered back and let out a weary sigh as he fell to his knees in the middle of the road, briefly noticing Jaskier and Roach reappearing from behind the rocks that they had been hiding behind during the fight, which, Geralt would admit to himself, was the first smart thing the bard had done in a while.

“Geralt, are you alright?” he asked tentatively, slowly approaching him, dropping the reins as he did, reaching out a hand.

He grunted.

“I’ve been better. Do you have any salve in that satchel of yours, bard?” he asked, rolling his shoulder and wincing. He was used to having more rest time between his monster battles, and two in two days was no fun.

Jaskier fumbled around in his bag and then pulled out a glass jar and answered, “Yes, some. Not much, but some. Here, let me help,” he said, coming to his side and dropping to his knees, not seeming to care about the mud that he knelt in, ruining the silk of his trousers. He gently pulled at the witcher’s shirt, just enough to get to his arm, and Geralt bit back the hiss that wanted to escape as he ran calloused fingers over the wound, and then heard him muttering, mostly to himself, “Two in two days. Not particularly fair, if you ask me…”

He looked at the younger man as he finished doctoring him, trying to wrap his mind around who he was. The bard consistently acted flighty, un-committal, not someone that one would entrust to follow orders in a life-or-death situation, but then at other times he acted like…like he actually _cared_ , and that baffled the witcher.

Roach stayed close, absently grazing on what little grass could be found next to the muddy path that cut a line through the woods.

Geralt got back to his feet and looked down at the charred remains of the monster and kicked at one of the burnt limbs, mulling over how it had gotten there. The thing was too far south, again, and Geralt was not a believer in coincidences. Something was drawing the beasts down from their normal hunting grounds, and he needed to find out what it was before it was too late.

He made his way over to Roach and patted the mare’s shoulder and murmured, “Good girl. We’ll take it easy, today.”

He heard Jaskier behind him, shuffling and putting stuff back into his pack, and then the bard called out, “So, what exactly _was_ that thing?” and he turned around just in time to see him staring down at the creature, his nose wrinkled in disgust, but a faint shiver told Geralt all he needed to know: he was nervous.

Geralt grunted.

“A _thymin._ They’re fast hunters that overtake their prey with speed and a killing blow. This one was older,” he said, tying up the stirrups on the side of the saddle, since he wouldn’t be riding. “Older means slower and more blind. Again, we were lucky. Had it been any younger, we’d both be dead.” He tugged the leather hard, one last time, and then turned and said, “This is twice in two days. You were right earlier. It’s not fair…nor is it a coincidence.”

At that, the bard’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline, and he nearly tripped as he walked over a crisped monster leg.

“ _Not_ a coincidence? What? Does that mean someone is trying to kill you? Because, if they are, they are doing quite a horrible job of it,” he commented, looking once more down at the slain beast. “Each battle lasts mere seconds. Not much of a fight, if you ask me.”

Geralt grunted again.

“Hmm. True. But that’s not what bothers me.” He grabbed Roach’s reins and started leading her off down the road on the other side, not bothering to move the dead creature’s body. Someone else could do it. “What bothers me,” he explained as Jaskier jogged to catch up with him, “Is that neither of these things was where they were supposed to be. Both of them were too far south.”

He glanced at Jaskier, but the younger man didn’t seem to have any reaction to his words.

Instead, he just nodded and replied, “Alright. So, that could mean one of four things: one, that someone is sending these things to try and kill you, highly improbable, but feasible, though badly thought out. Two,” he continued to list, “There’s a migration that we don’t know about and it’s perfectly normal for them to be here. Three, there are a cadre of monsters who have personal vendettas against you for killing their kin and are organizing an offensive, and I would understand that one, but I doubt any of them are intelligent enough to launch such an attack. Or four…” He nearly dropped his lute as he stumbled over a rock. “Four: it’s a coincidence and you’re making a big deal over nothing.”

The witcher glared at him for that last one, but, yet again, the look seemed to have no effect on the bard.

Turning his gaze back on the road, he mused over what his companion has suggested. In his own mind, it was something else entirely. Almost like something was drawing them there. And they were headed on a north-westerly road, which meant that it was fully possible that they would run across more. Gods, he hoped not.

His shoulder ached.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Two days later, it was evening and the weather took a sudden downturn, the temperature dropping and a biting wind cutting through them as they set up camp for the night. Geralt had originally planned on pushing through, but due to Jaskier’s disturbing silence and lack of complaining, along with the fact that his shoulder still ached, he figured it would best for them to stop.

He pulled a blanket from the pack and draped it over Roach’s flanks. She would need it. She didn’t have her winter coat in, just yet.

As he turned back to the fire that the witcher had already started, a small, meager one, but a fire nonetheless, he looked over to Jaskier, fully expecting to see him shivering and hear him complaining about being stuck in the cold…but was perplexed when he saw the bard lying on his back on a log that he had dragged over, faintly strumming on his lute, a tune forming and words falling from his lips as he composed.

“A shift of cold on a late summer wind, at night you hear it like a soft, sweet sin. It rips past your heart and straight through your skin…a memory that stirs and burns the fire within…your hard, aching chest…and gives you no rest…”

His voice drifted, and Geralt silently observed that the words were good and the melody haunting.

Not that he would ever tell Jaskier that; the bard didn’t need anymore encouragement, his ego was big enough as it was. Instead, Geralt sat on the other rotting log that Jaskier had set out next to the fire and glanced through his satchel for his second blanket. Sure, he was fine, but the bard was right when he described the wind: it ripped straight through the skin. The bard just might need the blanket…or, at least, Jaskier would beg for one later, of that much he was certain.

He used a long branch to prod the fire and put larger and larger sticks on top of it, until he had the equivalent of a log on the flames, and it burned warmly, making a slight difference to the wind that continued to howl, like some misplaced banshee, ripped from the wild moors of its haunted home.

Geralt glanced back at Jaskier, who was still strumming, though no longer singing, and keeping a fair distance from the fire.

He was acting odder than usual.

“Come over here. You’ll freeze,” he growled out, making it obvious from his tone that he wasn’t giving the bard a choice. It seemed to work, because he stood up and pulled his log closer, and then rested back up against it with a roll of his eyes.

“Fine, I’m closer. Will you stop mothering me, now?” he asked rhetorically, his tone almost childishly petulant.

“I’ll stop when you stop acting like a child,” he snapped back at him, and the bard rolled his eyes a second time and retorted, “Says the man who won’t let anyone else touch his horse, like a twelve-year-old girl in love with the wild stallion that she tamed all on her own…”

His tone was biting, mocking, almost as chill as the wind that whipped through the trees and threatened to blow out their campfire with each stuttering breath.

Geralt’s brow furrowed in confusion, wondering what had happened in just two days that the bard’s attitude had shifted as quickly as the weather. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the younger man, noticing a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Was he too close to the fire? No, not possible. In fact, Jaskier seemed to be trying to keep his distance and he wondered at that, his eyes narrowing on the young man’s slender frame, trying to ascertain if he was ill.

Besides his odd attitude, there was nothing that attributed more to the thought, so Geralt shrugged it off. The bard was fine, probably just tired from all of the walking.

As it got darker, and colder, Jaskier continued to pluck at his lute and two more verses were written down as Geralt built the fire a bit higher. In the direction that they were headed, he wouldn’t be the only wolf out there, that much was certain, and he was already being cautious. He may have been a witcher, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be killed by a smart predator while he slept.

He kept watch, needing little sleep. Jaskier’s fingers stilled on the strings as his eyes drifted close.

Even as the wind got colder, Geralt didn’t notice a single shiver coming from the bard, and he looked almost…comfortable. But that was ridiculous, of course, as he knew if the young man were awake, he’d be cursing about the ground and rocks under his back and making some smart remark about the cold. So, instead, Geralt let himself stay alert, but rested, falling into a state he’d been taught when he’d first been trained, called a relaxed watch.

His fingers rested on the pommel of his sword, where it rested just against his hip, lightly touching the ground, ready to pull it out at the mere snap of a twig.

The night passed fitfully, the wind howling and the weather arguing with itself, as it dropped white flakes one minute, and then rain the next, and then nothing. It sputtered through the night, even cutting through some of the heat that the witcher carried in his own body. He ran warmer than most, but even this was jarring to his senses.

When the dawn finally rose, he rose with it.

He first checked on Roach, who seemed to be fine, if a bit damp, and then went and checked on the bard, still sprawled out next to the log on the ground, next to the smoking remains of their fire.

Jaskier’s eyes were closed, damp covering his hair, but his face seemed warm, and even his clothes were mostly dry, which baffled Geralt, as he, himself, still had bits of rain sinking through his clothes to his skin.

Curious, but also annoyed, he tapped his boot to the bard’s ribs and said loudly, “Get up. Time to go,” and he roused suddenly and swiftly, eyes darting around him as if he was expecting an attack…and then let out a long sigh and deftly jumped to his feet, tucking his lute over his back, stretching his arms towards the sky, which was finally clearing up.

“Hmmmm,” he let out a long hum. “Now _that_ was a good night’s sleep.” He glanced over at Geralt. “Did you even sleep? I bet you didn’t, did you?”

He glared back at the bard and replied, “Someone has to make sure you don’t get eaten by wolves. Unfortunately, that seems to be all I do these days,” and the instant the biting words left his lips, he regretted them, but Jaskier didn’t seem the least bit offended, and actually chuckled.

“Not true, witcher. You also make a _great_ tour guide of the Continent,” he drawled back at him, winking. “Now, shall we get going?”

Geralt grunted and packed up the rest of the camp.

The rest of the day was him riding Roach, keeping a steady eye ahead of them, while glancing back at Jaskier, surprised not to hear him complaining about walking for once. Instead, the bard seemed almost giddy, in an upbeat mood the entire day, despite having to navigate some of the muddier sections of the road in his nice, leather boots.

All they were trying to make that day were miles. The road slanted more north, than west, and Geralt wasn’t going to lie…that worried him. As much as he was confident in his abilities, he was less confident as they headed north, where animals were more vicious, more desperate, more akin to their native landscape; all sharp edges and iron eyes, with wills to live just as strong as the pines that stretched above them, unflinching and defiant in their rocky perches.

As he became more tense, Roach’s steps and body shifting with his fingers tightening on the reins, Jaskier became almost more relaxed, his feet light on the ground as it got drier and the altitude got higher...and colder.

His fingers danced over the strings of his lute, words bright and carrying far in the crisp, dry air.

“Oh, like a dancer’s knife in fair hands, the cold breaks o’er this rocky land, air rising high and winter come, ne’er to leave its northern home,” he sang, and, again, Geralt was struck by the words and tune. It was happy, upbeat, but it held something in the tune and rhythm that made it seem dark and sinister. Not too unlike the feeling that he felt around Jaskier; a sort of colder tone to his words and body, while still being almost unnaturally warm and alive.

The ground became more sparse, mostly dry rock and dirt, and Geralt silently worried over food, though Jaskier didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

The bard walked alongside him, alighting from rock to rock with an almost arrogant saunter, and then glanced up at him and said, “You seem worried, Geralt. Care to share? Or are you going to keep all those maudlin thoughts locked up inside that enigmatic mind of yours?”

There was a slight humor to his taunt, to which the witcher couldn’t help but reply, “Food will be hard to come by. It’d be better if we weren’t so far north, but the road doesn’t go more south again until two days from now. I can go without,” he admitted, “But you will have to ration, and possibly have to wait longer than you should…”

His voice drifted and he was taken aback when Jaskier shot him a broad, toothy grin, an odd glint in his eye…

…and then he said, “Oh, don’t worry about me, witcher. I’ll be _just_ fine.”

And then he skipped on ahead, almost as if he knew exactly where he was going. Like a bird heading back home to its nest, needing nothing visible to guide it, acting only on instinct…and Geralt felt a shiver down his own spine. Something wasn’t right with the bard. Something was… _off._

Geralt had a clarity of thought.

It wasn’t Jaskier.

\--

It was the second night in the cold and barren landscape, and Geralt started a fire as Jaskier took care of Roach. The mare had taken some time to warm up to the bard, but she was now almost more affectionate with him than she was with the witcher. At first, he’d resented it, but, in all honesty, he found it rather endearing.

Tonight, however, he kept a wary eye on the bard as he removed Roach’s tack and brushed her down, now fairly certain that a shifter had taken Jaskier. He wasn’t sure when, but he knew it couldn’t be _his_ Jaskier.

…But he still sounded the same. He moved the same, he joked in the same way…there was only one way to tell.

As he lit the fire and fed it, slowly, he called out to Jaskier, “Remember when I showed you how to do this yourself, Jaskier?” and the bard laughed as he ran the brush over Roach’s withers and replied, “Oh, how could I forget! You showed me how, I went to do it, and ended up catching my _self_ on fire, ruining one of my favorite doublets! Gods, I was hopeless. Still am,” he admitted, turning his head and glancing back at Geralt, smiling wide. “You haven’t let me near one since.”

Easy enough to fake if anyone knew anything about Jaskier’s personality, so he asked, “That was the green one, wasn’t it,” and the bard scoffed.

“How dare you! It was the blue one and you _know_ it! Oh, that lovely blue and gold and magenta set…it had the matching hat, which, _some_ how,” he added with a chuckle, “Also caught fire that night. If I recall, you never liked that thing. Said it made me look like a fancied-up peacock just waiting to be marked for a kill! You also forced me to shave that night, as well.”

He was right. He had. So… _not_ a shifter.

Great. Then that meant that he had to do the one thing that he _really_ didn’t want to do. He had to _ask_ him what was wrong.

The fire going strong, he sat on the large rock to one side and pulled out his swords and whetstone. He hadn’t used them, but it gave him something to do with his hands, something to keep him occupied as he tried to do the one thing that he was not at all gifted in: talking.

He waited for Jaskier to finish, but it certainly took the bard some time to do. After brushing the mare, he then proceeded to check all of her feet, sneak her a piece of an apple from his own bag, and then rubbed down all the leather of the tack and polished the metal clasps until they were reflecting the firelight almost as if they were made of mirrored glass. Geralt appreciated it, but he felt as if Jaskier knew what the witcher was about to do and was stalling.

Finally, he came back to the fire, sat on the opposite side on another large boulder, and then pulled out his lute and began to strum.

Soon, the only sounds were the scrape of the stone over his sword, the crisp notes from the lute being plucked, and the pop and hiss of the fire in front of them, the notes seeming to drift up with each spark towards the sky that was just starting to glimmer with stars.

He waited, unsure of how to start.

Finally, he broke the silence with, “You’ve been different, Jaskier,” and he barely glanced over at him, only his eyes moving to catch his eye, his fingers still strumming lightly.

“Different? How’s that, Geralt?”

He felt like he was being challenged. He swallowed. Licked his lips. Ran the whetstone slightly slower along his blade.

He swallowed a second time and said cautiously, “I’m not entirely sure. You’ve been…harder. More…defiant.” The words weren’t quite right, and he knew it, but Jaskier didn’t say a word, only arched an eyebrow at him as if silently bidding him to continue, so Geralt did, stumbling through his words, wishing Jaskier could do it for him. Words were not his forte.

“You’re not as scared as you should be. You don’t seem worried. You seem…sure of yourself.” He stopped with the whetstone and gestured towards him. “All day, you walked liked you had…wings bearing you up. You normally stumble, complain, drive me mad with your bickering and _whin_ ing. But there’s been none of that for the past few days. Not a word of complaint, not a single backhanded remark…and that’s not you, Jaskier. What’s going on with you?”

Jaskier chuckled, but that’s not what irritated him the most; what irritated him the most was the way the bard smirked at him through the top of the flames, his eyes bright, the blue almost unnatural, searing through him.

Again, he kept his distance from the fire, like two nights before, and then he carefully put his lute down and to the side.

He then leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his voice was low and confident in a way that Geralt had only ever heard a few times before, when charming mayors and kings to giving them the coin that they were owed, and he had a sudden insight as to why they all conceded to the bard so easily.

“So, you finally notice, dear witcher,” he said with a wry grin, his eyes glinting. “Took you long enough. Years.” He rolled his eyes and then moved to lay on his back on the rock, hands crossed behind his head as he remarked, “Oh, the irony of it all. I come on as a humble bard, clumsy and ill-fitted to life on the road, certain you would either find me out or leave me to die…only to have you save my life, again and again, when, the truth being, I was never in any _real_ danger. Except for the djinn. That one was real, unfortunately…”

At that, Geralt put down his sword and raised his brow, still not understanding.

Jaskier kept on talking.

“We were always in a fairly warm climate, easier for me to blend in, not be noticed…mind you,” he added with an amused lilt, “I was baffled when years later, when we met again, you never once questioned how I looked. Nearly two decades had passed, but you didn’t even flinch when you saw me. You were completely oblivious and…and that was when I knew that unless something changed, you might never notice. So, I took a risk and stayed with you this time.”

He turned his head on his hands and gazed at him just over the top of the fire between them.

“How did you never notice that I didn’t age?”

And Geralt felt a sudden chill go through him at his words and his eyes widened. How…how the _fuck_ had he not noticed? How had he never realized that the bard, who came in and out of his life at irregular intervals, had barely aged a day over such a long span of time?

He took a breath and then carefully asked, “What are you?”

Jaskier smirked again as he answered.

“Let’s just say that I’m not the first of my kind that you’ve met, and that we’re not as rare as you think. Just…more adaptable.”

Geralt scoured his memory, trying to figure out what the bard was referencing. He reached through, digging into every creature that he knew of, every monster that he’d ever encountered…and his eyes widened even further when he came to only one conclusion.

He slowly rose to his feet, sword clattering on the ground.

Jaskier turned his head towards him.

“Figured it out, witcher?”

Geralt nodded.

“Dragon.”

\--

He had sat back down and now ran it through his mind, trying to make it fit with everything that he knew about the bard. And it hurt his head. There were so many things that hadn’t made sense before, that now all suddenly made sense: the reason why he’d run into so many people, so many circumstances, so many odd coincidences…none of them had been coincidence. The beasts from days earlier. They’d been drawn down by him, sensing a young dragon, not as experienced, thinking he would be easy prey. He probably could have killed them on his own without Geralt being any the wiser.

In fact, he’d probably killed many monsters on his own in his travels, silently and unknowingly.

Glaring at Jaskier…if that was really his name…he asked in a low, strained voice, “The child surprise…you knew it would happen, didn’t you?”

The bard had one hand freed and absently picked at his nails as he replied, in an almost bored tone, “Yes. I did.” Before Geralt could say another word, however, he cut him off with, “And the only thing that I could do was make sure that it happened in the safest way possible. There were several outcomes that could have presented themselves, but by inserting myself into the situation, I made sure that the best and safest outcome was achieved.”

Geralt glared and hissed out, “There was all out war! Innocent lives were lost! How do you justify that as safest?”

He sat up sharply, and his eyes were hard and cold as he said in a low, almost threatening tone that he’d never heard from the bard, “My kind and I do what we must to protect the Continent, witcher, and you would be wise to remember it. My kind is blessed with farsight, and I have used to it guide you, _safely_ , through what would have been a _much_ worse outcome had I not been here. Trust me, you do not want to know what havoc would have been wreaked upon the world of men had I not done what I did! The blood that would have been spilled!”

Geralt stared him down…and then asked, some of the fight taken out of him, “What about Yennefer? Did you know about her?”

Jaskier’s eyes dropped to the ground.

“Unfortunately, yes. As much as I… _despised_ it,” he spat out, “She was a necessary evil.” He looked off to the side and then said in a voice barely above a whisper, “That djinn nearly fucked up everything, you know. All because you couldn’t sleep.” His gaze snapped up to Geralt’s, and the witcher found himself missing the bard’s soft smile, instead replaced with a fiery coldness that turned his softness into sharp angles and dark shadows under his eyes. “Why _her_ , Geralt? Why?”

He didn’t know what to say. Not a single answer came to his lips, and he couldn’t think of a reason why he’d ever been drawn to her. He thought back over his history with Yennefer, trying to put logic or a feeling on it…but nothing came to him.

“I…I don’t know.” He suddenly smelled lilac and gooseberries and he glanced up sharply at the bard, who had one hand out, purple light curling on the end of his fingers and he bit out, “What are you doing?”

The dragon, Jaskier, the bard, whatever he was, seemed to look sad as he answered, “Proving a point,” and the purple light vanished. “They say that witchers can’t be enchanted or enspelled…but they can. With just the right combination of unfortunate circumstances. Such as, say…a djinn, a misplaced spell to create a vessel by a mad, power-hungry sorceress, and the power of a witcher’s sign, all in one place at _exactly_ the wrong time…”

Geralt straightened, leveling his eyes with him, blue catching on gold, and he let out a breath.

“Do you mean--”

“None of it was real.”

And, just like that, everything fell into place. Why she had always felt like a piece that didn’t fit. Why they’d been drawn together in the strangest of ways, how they kept on being yanked apart in the tumult of chaotic circumstances, and then he felt all of his anger just vanish.

He looked at Jaskier.

“Is Jaskier even your true name? Julian? Dandelion? Or do you have some other name I should know of, dragon?”

The sad bitterness showed in his tone, but the bard smiled at him, as if pleased with the question, and answered in a sincere tone, “Jaskier is my true name, Julian and Dandelion were the disguises. But only one person has ever said my true name in a way that I have ever appreciated, witcher…”

The look told him all he needed to know.

They sat there in a comfortable silence, he wasn’t sure how long it was, but it was long enough that he had to prod the fire to keep it from burning out…but as he did, he glanced up at Jaskier with a wry smile and said, “You’re a dragon. You don’t need a fire to keep warm, do you?” and Jaskier smiled, looking more like the bard he knew.

“Not one whit, witcher. As you must have already noticed, the colder it gets, the harder it is to hide my true nature…and the more heat my body gives me.”

He slowly stood up and turned and faced away from the fire, arms outstretched, the light of the flames showing the faint scaling pattern of his red doublet, shadows casting behind him like wings.

“I live for the mountains and cold air,” he said softly, tilting his head in that certain way of his.

Geralt, feeling warm enough, threw some dirt on the fire and stood and walked around it to join him, looking up at the now star filled sky. The two of them stood there, both of them basking in the cold night air, eyes turned heavenward, silent. It could have been minutes or hours, he wasn’t sure, but he finally broke the silence.

“Your music,” he said. “Did you…was it…”

He didn’t finish the question, but Jaskier shot him another one of those smiles that he was intimately familiar with, and answered, “A bit of dragonspeak in each one, to gently nudge them to separate themselves from their coin. Not in _every_ song, of course, but your songs…oh, yours were special, Geralt. You should know by now, I would think…”

The corner of the bard’s lip tilted up, and his eyes twinkled with that familiar shine, and the witcher felt something inside of him soften.

Yes. He knew.

“You loved me,” he said, and Jaskier softly laughed.

“Oh, no, Geralt…I still do. I think I will forever,” he admitted, reaching out a hand and putting lute-calloused fingers on his jaw, gently tracing them down to his neck, lightly tugging at the silver chain and saying, “The tables are turned. I believe that I am the one that will outlive you, darling man.” His hand now rested on his chest, just over the pendant that permanently rested on his body. He then whispered, “I gave you up to destiny so many times, but now I must ask you if you will let me be selfish…”

His voice trailed off, and Geralt knew what he was asking: if he could stay with him until the end, until…until the witcher died.

Geralt graced him with an actual smile and answered Jaskier’s unspoken question with, “When I yelled at you on that mountain, the instant you left, I regretted it.” He paused, and then continued. “But my pride kept me from going back for you. I have regretted it for far too long and wish to live without any more regrets. I want to find what pleases me.”

The witcher put his fingers over Jaskier’s on his chest and gently squeezed.

The bard’s lips stretched into a smile…and then his other hand was wrapped around the back of his neck and pulling him into a hot and fervent kiss, and Geralt could suddenly feel the heat pouring off the man and he felt drawn into it. He leaned into the kiss, tongues tangling, hot and wet, almost violent as Jaskier pulled him down to the ground, Geralt’s hips straddling his. His hands slid down the witcher’s body and under his clothes and Geralt did the same to him, sinking into the sweet heat his body gave off, like a raw flame in the cold northern air licking at his skin, flaying him alive.

They were soon both naked and uncaring, skin sliding against skin, rough and smooth, the sensations warring with each other, and they tussled, both of them fighting for dominance. Jaskier’s strength no longer hidden but on display as he flipped them over and easily held the witcher down with hands on his hips.

It was like sparring with the best partner in the world, one who knew your every move, your every counter move, and it was welcome, because it was the sparring itself that was the reward, not the defeat or end result, only the fight. The ebb and flow of parry and slide and tight, narrow turns and pivots around deadly blows…it was fucking intoxicating, and Geralt marveled at the fact that he had managed to keep himself so long from the man beneath him, beside him, above him.

Each of them took turns, fingers slick with oil, on their backs, their sides, their stomachs, both of them with seemingly endless endurance, each of them trying to tire the other out, neither of them succeeding, only wanting more of the other.

Geralt had never felt so wanted, so hungered for…so loved.

He would keep this for as long as he could.

\--

They awoke to early morning sun and the sound of Roach pawing on her tethered line. Jaskier was pressed to Geralt’s bare chest, and Geralt ran his hand down the bard’s side, and then said, “So it was your fault for the _advaruk_ and the _thymin_ ,” and the bard chuckled.

“I am sorry about that, you know. It wasn’t on purpose,” and Geralt lightly rubbed his bare hip in response.

“I know.”

They lay there a long while, the sun rising a bit higher and Roach getting more agitated, and then Jaskier pulled away and stood up, naked, and faced the sun, stretching his arms high over his head, and Geralt watched him from where he still laid on the ground, on their mess of blankets and clothes.

He then asked softly, “Do you miss it?”

Jaskier hummed and replied, “Yes, from time to time, but I’d much rather walk by your side than be up there,” he gestured vaguely towards the clear sky above them.

Geralt gave him a look, one eyebrow raised, and Jaskier admitted, “Okay, yes, I miss it. A lot. I miss being able to stretch my wings, strike fear and terror into anything that approaches, and take off into the sunlight and see places that no creature crawling this earth has ever seen,” he came back down to the blankets and then reached over and tangled his fingers in the witcher’s silver hair, “But this…I would trade it all for more of this, make no mistake.”

Geralt smiled and accepted the soft kiss his bard placed on his lips, and then said softly, indulgently, “You are a dragon, Jaskier…you deserve to fly free.”

He smiled back at him.

“And I will, my witcher. One day, I will, no doubt…but not while you live.”

Geralt hummed.

“Hmm. Witchers live a long time, bard. You might come to regret your decision,” he cautioned, well aware of what he was risking if Jaskier decided to change his mind…but was reassured when he leaned in and pressed a fierce kiss to his lips, leaving him breathless, and then said, “Never, Geralt. I will never regret this decision.”

He then rose back up to his feet and said, “Now, shall we go? It’s a lovely day, and we have a few more miles to tread.”

Geralt stood, also unashamed of his nakedness, and then drew the bard into his body and wrapped his hands around his waist and whispered into his ear, “Perhaps you’d like to gather us some meat, my mighty dragon. Maybe…stretch your wings?”

At that, Jaskier pulled back slightly and looked up at him, marveling at what he’d just offered up to him.

“You mean to say…”

Geralt nodded.

“Yes. Now, go. Catch us something good to eat.” He then pulled back and stood with his arms crossed over his chest and arched an eyebrow at him. “Now, would be best, Jaskier, while there’s still plenty of light,” he jested, and Jaskier suddenly grinned, a manic grin on his lips that the witcher hadn’t seen since he’d played at the court of Cintra.

He then turned and recklessly ran straight for the edge of the path, which dropped off to a treacherous cliff…and then leaped.

Geralt rushed to the edge and watched from a distance as the bard fell; pale skin turned into magnificent red scales, his head and jaw snapped and reformed, wings burst from his frame, folded wet with blood, and his body twisted and changed…and then his wings burst wide open and he shot straight up, the wind nearly knocking the witcher off his feet as he watched him take off into the sun overhead, letting out a roar, blood spattering over the witcher’s skin from where his dragon had flown past him.

He watched him soar, circle for a moment…and then dive into the trees.

Not fifteen minutes later, a massive red dragon dragged a large elk into the camp, dropped it at Geralt’s feet, who was now dressed, and then walked towards him, first on claw…and then the sound of snapping bones and twisting appendages came to his ears as the wings sloughed off his back, turning to dust, and scales dropped from his body, every piece that fell from him leaving faint traces of blood and ragged scars behind, and then he was naked and as human as before, walking to him on pale, bare feet, not a single scar on his body.

He approached Geralt with a loving smile and reached up and drew him into a kiss.

As they pulled back, he said with an amused grin, “As my witcher commanded. We have food.”

“By all rights, I should make _you_ carry it,” he said gruffly, but smiled to show he wasn’t serious. “Thank you, my dragon.”

Jaskier chuckled and pressed himself against him once more and then said softly, “You know, on maps for these mountains, there is a saying in old elvish that has often been mistranslated,” and Geralt simply said, “Hmm,” and so he continued. “The saying is ‘here be monsters’, but the word isn’t monster, you see.” He brushed his mouth against his ear. “It’s _dragon,_ ” he breathed and Geralt shivered.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier sighed and pressed a kiss to his jaw.

“I am yours until the end of your days, Geralt. I swear it.”

Geralt put a hand under his chin and just before their lips met, his whispered back to him, “Then I will make sure I never die…”

The kiss was light, but it was a promise.

His head pressed into Jaskier’s hair and he lovingly whispered, “Here be dragons…”

\--


End file.
